


The Serpent’s Heart

by Aldariel, Ascended_Sleepers



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls II: Daggerfall
Genre: Fictional Racism, Gen, Nudity, Orsinium, Translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-17 04:04:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16509047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aldariel/pseuds/Aldariel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ascended_Sleepers/pseuds/Ascended_Sleepers
Summary: Gortwog gro-Nagorm couldn't turn a blind eye when his people were treated like animals. He was a typical orc, inflexible and stubborn, and he forged a new fate and a new kingdom for his people... even though the truth about the founding of Nova Orsinium was known only to the king - and the demon Boethiah.





	The Serpent’s Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aldariel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aldariel/gifts).



> A translation of the Russian text [Сердце змеи](https://ficbook.net/readfic/6186216)
> 
> Translator: Ascended Sleepers/Sharmat-dreams  
> Author and beta of the translation: [Aldariel](https://ficbook.net/authors/1375080) / [tintael](http://tintael.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Also the fic has [a lovely illustration](https://66.media.tumblr.com/390d2a04313643efb9b82c435407b210/tumblr_inline_phmt6dgKX61s59aoz_540.png) :)

When Gortwog saw her for the first time, she appeared to him in the guise of a beautiful woman: tall and shapely, with a wide, determined chin, which spoke of a proud disposition, and delicate olive skin, which wasn’t marred by a single scar. She could not fool him. Women of flesh and blood did not appear out of nothing, and even Gortwog, a young man of barely seventeen years, dashing and hot-blooded, understood that the woman in his vision had ill intentions.

The smiling countenance of the unfamiliar Orc beauty exuded seductiveness of a lecherous Breton girl. Her eyes were the eyes of a snake.

Gortwog, who slept alone ever since his older brothers left him, rose from his bedding, drew himself up to his full height, and threateningly leaned over the nightly visitor.

“Begone, spirit,” he said in a hollow voice. “You don’t have any power over Malacath’s children.”

But the demoness with the face of an Orc beauty didn’t back down. Quite the contrary, she moved closer to Gortwog and whispered languidly:

“Kill your father! Kill him and take his power for yourself, for otherwise you and your clan will sink into oblivion.”

It was then that Gortwog understood that before him was a demon, a liar who could hear his innermost thoughts and present them charmingly while wishing only to deceive him in secret.   

A demon who but waited until he showed weakness.

“Kill your father!” the unbidden guest insisted, and with each word she spoke, it was as though the room grew colder and Gortwog ’s heart heavier. “You must decide it for yourself, Gortwog  gro-Nagorm, you know it better than anyone!”

The son of Malacath did not stoop to arguing with a spawn of the daedra. He wordlessly banished her, slapped her in that beautiful, wicked face or, rather, he tried to slap her, but though he was quick and his blow was sudden, the demoness evaded it with grace and ease of a skilled dancer and, laughing, vanished in the darkness.  

But come a few months since that memorable encounter – before the shaggy snowdrifts in the Druadach Mountains had melted away – and Gortwog gro-Nagorm killed his father. He didn’t do it to satisfy the whims of the demoness – it was the only way, prescribed by the Code of Malacath.

“Mauloch,” the elders admonished Gortwog and the other kids with him, “commanded us so: our clans will share the fate of our chiefs. For as long as the ruler of the stronghold is strong in body and steadfast in spirit, our walls will remain sturdy, the fire in our smithies won’t go out, and everything our tribe does will turn out well, and our luck won’t run out. But if the chief is feeble-minded or worse, a cripple, expect trouble!  The entire tribe will grow weak, the walls will crumble away, the smithies will freeze over, and even the most skilled of us will fail in their endeavors. Luck doesn’t favor the weak chief.”

And so in the Orc strongholds it was customary for the chief’s sons to challenge their fathers to a fight to the death. Only the victor – the mightiest of warriors – deserved to lead the tribe, for Malacath favored him over the others.

The fighters shed blood to the glory of Mauloch, and their valor was pleasing to Him. The stronger and luckier victor became the tribe’s new chief, and the loser, if he fought honorably, took service with the Father in afterlife. These laws were devotedly observed in the Orc strongholds, and such was the case with Gortwog ’s older brothers: Garzok challenged the chief and was felled by his hand, proving that it was as firm as ever, and Garotmuk was dead for the stronghold, having chosen exile.

Orcs often left their native tribes. The harsh customs of the strongholds didn’t appeal to everyone. Only the tribal chiefs were allowed to have wives and children; their daughters were wed to the chiefs of the neighboring clans. There were those who didn’t agree with the established order of things and left, for the Code taught not to force or enslave fellow brothers and sisters. The Orc beauties who didn’t wish to be bargained away in the deals between tribal chiefs and strong, young Orcs who dreamed of having their own family, and sons who couldn’t raise a hand against their fathers forsook their tribes and escaped to the cities. The luckiest outcasts found work in the smithies and the rest didn’t shirk the most shameful of duties which ordinarily few would take upon themselves to perform.

The bravest of all outcasts rallied under the banners of the Dragon, hoping to win respect by shedding blood of the Empire’s enemies. Only Gortwog  saw little sense in any of it. Both city and clan Orcs were in the eyes of haughty elves and men no more than beasts that were fed scraps out of boredom or self-interest and even valued for as long as they remained useful, but never treated as equals.

Gortwog was a warrior and the chief’s son. He often accompanied traders and smiths of clan Minat to the neighboring settlements and in his travels he had seen all sorts of things. A tall, broad-shouldered youth, Gortwog  easily stood out in the crowd, and the passersby would turn to stare at him with loathsome, humiliating curiosity without shame or regard for his feelings. In High Rock, Orcs were widely regarded as savages who weren’t much different from goblins or animals. The locals quietly feared them and talked a lot of nonsense behind their backs: they told tall tales about the Orc women with voracious appetites who ate their own young and Orc men who lived in wretched squalor, shat on one another while copulating and stole and mutilated human women so as to prevent them from returning to their hearths. And they babbled a lot in the open, too. A dirt-loving swine won’t understand when it’s insulted.

Orcs made the best armor in the entire Tamriel, but that alone wasn’t a reason enough for the clumsy, unskilled duffers, who paid hard coin for the Orc steel, to treat them as equals. It wasn’t a surprise to anyone that Gortwog, a young man of barely seventeen years, dashing and hot-blooded, could barely tolerate such injustice.

Gortwog gro-Nagorm could put up with personal offenses easier than with the injuries the other Orcs were made to suffer. He thought long and hard how to help his brothers and sisters all over Tamriel, not just the tribesmen of clan Minat, but he couldn’t find a solution. The Code of Mauloch taught to respect one’s enemy, but kept silent about getting the enemy’s respect.

Gortwog never thought himself a coward, but it frightened him to realize that Malacath couldn’t help him. The Father’s commandments protected the clans better than sturdy walls of stone, in peace and in war, and every Orc had an assigned role to play.

The first among the chieftain’s wives was the mother of the family hearth: the keeper of the keys to the larder and the sole proprietress of the food supplies. The second-oldest wife became the forgewife and she was chosen for her skillfulness instead of beauty.

Gortwog’s mother was peerless at her craft, and he respected her above all the other Orcs. It was her who unknowingly taught her son to be a chief.

“You won’t make a good sword out of a workpiece if you hurry,” she would say. “Steel is tempered patiently and lovingly… But it isn’t enough to forge a good sword. You need to look after it well and practice with it, and let it taste blood once in a while. Otherwise, it’ll all be for nothing. And your body, too, Gortwog, and your mind and will. If you don’t put them to good use, you’ll rust away. Mauloch doesn't tolerate idleness.”

Gortwog didn’t spare himself: he was neither impatient nor indolent. He observed, listened, learned, and with each passing day, he understood that his father was a bad leader. What purpose did a strong spirit and a mighty body serve if neither could help fellow brothers and sisters in need? The Bretons continued to treat them like animals, and no one had the passion to challenge them.

He hasn’t matured yet, that young and insolent Orc. Compared to his father, Gortwog was a pureblind puppy who was years away from becoming a full-grown wolf. He needed to wait and learn while there was still time, but when a seneschal of another Daggerfall lord came to negotiate a delivery of armor, Gortwog forgot all prudence. He hadn’t felt so humiliated in a long time. The Breton bought the masterpieces of the tribe smiths for laughable money - Gortwog spent some time in the cities and he knew what the fair prices should be - but their strong and proud chief allowed himself to be deceived.

Gortwog couldn’t bear it any longer. The purblind, toothless puppy challenged a wolf to a single combat and won.

Their fight wasn’t particularly long or spectacular. The odds weren’t in Gortwog’s favor, and the tribesmen of clan Minat didn’t expect a spectacle. Though Gortwog, tall and broad-shouldered, stood out among his peers, no one thought he could measure swords with the old chief.  

His father was strong, experienced and skilled, but on Gortwog’s side was fiery determination and winter cold that clenched his heart.

It seemed that on that day the entire tribe had flocked to the courtyard. At daybreak, the snow was cleared off, and the sombre expanse of the winter sky froze over, as if in anticipation of the fight, and neither snow nor icy rain greeted the combatants.

And the Orcs of clan Minat were just like the sky – stern, cold, and wordless in their anticipation.

“Well, lad, aren’t you a little impatient to take my place?” the chief teased Gortwog, playing with his sword.

Gortwog didn’t answer. He recognized the sword. He remembered how his mother forged it and gave it to the chief as a gift; how she carefully heated the iron on a bedding of black coal, not rushing the preparation with air or water, stroked it lovingly with a hammer and scraped off the flaky crust; how she rinsed the malleable steel in a tincture from “Malacath’s tears”, and fanciful silvery tracery appeared on the blade, running from the tip to the hilt.    

So noble a sword could cut a feather on the fly or sever an arm, as it happened with Garzok - first, his arm and then his head.

But Gortwog wasn’t afraid of sharing his older brother’s fate. On that day he feared nothing whatsoever. He wore a chain mail, wielded an axe and refused to take a shield with him to the fight, as if to show off his fearlessness. Gortwog waited, watchful and vigilant, for his father to attack, for the right to deliver the first blow belonged to the chief. The battleground was a square, twelve ells in length, fenced off with stakes which were hammered into the frozen ground. The combatants weren’t allowed to overstep the marks lest they be considered cowards, and no tribesman would think it dishonorable to strike down a coward. The Code of Mauloch taught the Orcs not to fear death and honor their god with blood. The true sons of Mauloch didn’t shun battle.

Gortwog’s battle began before the first blow was dealt; it began in that brief moment when their duel was announced and he gazed into his mother’s eyes and saw terror in them - terror, grief, and despair.

On that day, the forgewife recovered quickly and hid her pain beneath the mask of feigned indifference. But to the duel between her husband and her son she came as if to battle, having donned a suit of armor, and her breastplate glittered like silver. Gortwog had no difficulty finding his mother in the first rows of spectators. Tall, stately, and broad-shouldered, she resembled a firm rock.

“Well, Gortwog, let Malacath take you,” the chief said in a hollow voice. Malouch taught his children that there was no valor in an effortless victory. It would be a different matter if Gortwog challenged his father a few springs later.   

To waste time was to anger Malacath, and the chief decided not to wait any longer. Wordlessly, he lunged forward, aiming his fanciful sword at Gortwog’s stomach. Both combatants knew: woe is him who misses a single blow. Even the chain mail that his mother made for him wouldn’t save Gortwog. The chief had no equals among the Orcs of clan Minat, and with a sword like his, there was no escaping his masterful strokes.

Steel struck against steel: the sword, repelled in passing, flickered before Gortwog’s eyes, and the chief almost lost his ground. If Gortwog had a weaker opponent, he could catch him as he was trying to recover, cleave his chest and stomach with an abrupt, decisive swing of his axe. But his father didn’t seem to budge while Gortwog nearly overstepped the bounds of the sacred battleground.

Gortwog knew that if he were to do nothing but parry and defend himself, he’d inevitably strain himself to exhaustion.

“Let’s praise Mauloch with our battle, let’s praise clan Minat!” the chief roared with laughter.

Gortwog didn’t answer - he was saving his breath. The sun showed itself from underneath the gray pall of clouds and smiled at him a cold, guileful smile.

The chief's long sword swished, aiming at his legs, but Gortwog stepped to the side and dodged the blow. The sword shot up to his unprotected thigh, light as a feather in the chief’s hands, but Gortwog parried it and tried to get at his father’s legs - he tried in vain. The chief was strong and swift like the wind itself.

And so they circled round and round each other like street dancers at the Fire Festival.

Gortwog waited for an opportune moment to strike his father down.

His father waited until Gortwog lost patience to wait.

But the sun betrayed the young Orc. It showed itself from underneath the clouds, shone brightly into his eyes, distracting his attention. Gortwog slipped on icy ground and fell on one knee, nearly relinquishing his axe. His father smiled at him, his smile as bright and fierce as the sun; his sword rose above Gortwog’s head, but he managed to raise his arm, and the terrible strike harmlessly glance off the metal-bound head of the axe. Gortwog retaliated at once and the axe nearly bit into his father’s hand. His father took a step back to protect his fingers, and Gortwog managed to rise to his feet. Turning his eyes to the sky, he understood that the right moment was nigh.

His father made a swift and brusque lunge, and the sword nearly tore through Gortwog’s side. He dodged, but his father followed after him relentlessly until all of a sudden he tarried for a moment, blinded by the brilliant glitter of his wife’s polished breastplate.

Gortwog raised his axe and struck his father down with all the fury he could muster. The heavy, wicked steel tore his father’s throat, cut through the vertebra. The chief’s body began to twitch terribly, as though not realizing its death, spattered Gortwog with blood, and at last sank to the ground.

And the new chief threw up his arms victoriously, and after a moment’s silence that for Gortwog lasted an eternity, the tribe answered him with a triumphant roar.

The victory was intoxicating for the young Orc who had just bathed in his father’s blood. Later he could barely recall the events of the entire day, and only its final hours lingered in his memory like shadows. Under the pale stars, the wise women of the tribe spoke to him about gifts with which the chiefs were endowed - strength, wisdom, health, fertility - and wove spells meant to ward off evils.

The wise women brought one of the snakes that lived with the shamans, cut off its head and poured its blood into a cup. They added firewater which the mother of the hearth brewed from herbs and roots, followed by the snake’s heart and its gall, and prepared a potion. Gortwog drained the cup, fighting back nausea.  

“Bitter is the taste of power,” the eldest wife of the old chief whispered to him. “Don’t falter, Gortwog gro-Nagorm.”

When he stepped over the threshold of the chief’s bedchambers, the demoness already waited for him - she wore but a short felt undercoat and a breastplate and she sat on the bed, smiling with undue familiarity. She had long muscular legs, wide hips, and under the cloth was concealed...

Gortwog averted his hungry gaze with great difficulty and looked her in the eye.

“What do you need, demon?” he asked, feeling himself blush.

The demoness took a step towards him - she was unbelievably tall, at least half a head taller than Gortwog - and, leaning over him, cooed:

“You heeded my advice, Gortwog gro-Nagorm, but it’s just the beginning. You know what awaits you in the future, don’t you? Crown! Unite all tribes and clans, Gortwog gro-Nagorm, become a guardian for the outcasts. Take by force what they’ve deserved all along even if it means turning the entire world upside down.”

“Don’t pretend that you have power over me, spawn of Oblivion. I didn’t do it for you -”

“No, my good chief,” she interrupted him with a smirk, “it was for me, for influence and power. For your people, for their strength and unity. I will look after you, my chief. Don’t fail me.”

Gortwog angrily grabbed her by the shoulder, but his fingers grasped at emptiness - the accursed demoness eluded him again, vanishing like hazy mist. But her speeches about ambition and rebellion had lodged in Gortwog’s mind. He didn’t depose his father for her. He deposed him for his people, and it wouldn’t be fair or honorable to falter halfway.

It took many years for Gortwog gro-Nagorm to forge his kingdom.

“Steel is tempered patiently and lovingly,” his mother taught him, and Gortwog took her lessons to heart.

He didn’t hurry, exercised reasonable caution, and never showed fear. He met with the other chiefs, entered into alliances, and married a daughter of one of his neighbours, but above all he relied on the city Orcs. Humans and elves were used to treating Orcs as animals and openly discussed the most valuable of secrets in the presence of their servants. Could a spawn of a swine understand anything? The Orcs were unpretentious and didn’t hesitate to take the basest work; invisible and ever-present, they happily reported everything they had heard to their chief.

Their chief was generous, for he understood that, though he had gold in abundance, at times knowledge was far more valuable than coin. Many clans saw that Gortwog was in the right, and he didn’t hesitate to buy the loyalty of many others, saving them from a life of dire want. And uncertainty, in hushed voices, people began to talk about Orsinium once again.

But every sword had to taste blood, and from time to time Gortwog gro-Nagorm eagerly indulged his blade. Among all chieftains who opposed the creation of Orsinium, he chose an ideal opponent. Shadek gro-Zurzab showed himself to be an unwise ruler: he was a fine personification of greed, cruelty and foolishness. Shadek was convenient to his Breton neighbours, yet they’d never take the trouble to protect him, and he wasn’t in the habit of befriending other chieftains.

Gortwog gained over one of Shadek’s relatives with lavish gifts, and he passed a piece of false news to the chief. Shadek was told about a poorly guarded caravan belonging to clan Minat which was heading to the fair in Sentinel. The greedy fool swallowed the bait, laid an ambush, and fell into a trap Gortwog set for him.

To give him his due, Shadek gro-Zurzab didn’t retreat when, instead of smiths and merchants, he came to blows with the best warriors of clan Minat. He was a skilled commander, and his orcs fought well, pleasing Mauloch. But Gortwog didn’t want an aimless bloodshed and so, when he spotted his ideal enemy in the thick of fray, he began to cut his way towards him.

The sword which his late mother forged for him caused death and destruction. Brutality towards his enemies didn’t weigh heavily upon Gortwog: with a clear consciousness he cut throats, hacked through chain mails, and stung his enemies through the joints in the armor. He has cut his way to Shadek, having lost his shield and his prudence. In a suit of armor spattered with gore and guts, Gortwog cut a terrifying figure, but the enemy chief wasn’t a tad afraid of him.

Gortwog was aware that before him stood an experienced fighter - skilled, strong but haughty in his carelessness. Shadek didn’t wear a helmet because he wasn’t accustomed to defeat, but his arrogance made him vulnerable to deceit.

Gortwog pretended to have slipped on the grass which was wet from spilled blood, and Shadek readily threw himself at him with his sword atilt, aiming it into the gap between Gortwog’s pauldron and helmet, but Gortwog anticipated the attack. He deflected the blow with his own sword and directed it, swiftly, upwards, towards the enemy’s unguarded neck. The blade almost cut off Shadek’s head, and his heavy body fell prostrate at Gortwog’s feet.

“Shadek gro-Zurzab has fallen,” Gortwog bellowed, brandishing his sword, and at last the battle came to an end.

The tribe’s smith - the forgewife and second widow of the fallen chief - walked behind the sparse string of the enemy’s wagons. She reminded Gortwog of his late mother - she had her beauty, her proud stature, and breadth of shoulders - only his mother’s face never bore dark-red bruises from frequent beatings.

“Can you fix my shield, sister?” Gortwog asked the skilled mistress when the caravan halted for a brief respite.  “I’ll pay you thirty drakes.”

“Shame on you, chief!” she exclaimed, pursing her lips. “You freed me and every single one of us. I won’t take payment from you.”

“That’s beside the point, sister. My shield was damaged during my fight with Shadek. If you don’t take my money, you’ll be enslaved by him all over again.”

It was how Gortwog gro-Nagorm met his second wife.

His good luck never forsook him afterwards. After the victory over Shadek gro-Zurzab, Gortwog gained a reputation among his kin of a true hero, a champion of the oppressed and forsaken. The Orcs from the cities hurried to rally under his banners out of love, cupidity, and oftentimes out of fear.

In the year three-hundred and ninety, the Orcs of Gortwog revived their kingdom, and some twenty-seven years later, Emperor Uriel gave Orsinium the same rights he had given to Wayrest, Daggerfall, and Sentinel.

When the famous Breton novelist Menina Gsost expressed a desire to write a voluminous novel about the Orc king and his young kingdom, Gortwog readily invited her to Orsinium. He was a welcoming host and generously shared his stories with her, and it wasn’t long before a vivid and beautiful tale was born on the pages covered with Menina Gsost’s writing. And more importantly, it was a tale that portrayed Orcs in a good light. What else could one possible want?

The entire Tamriel learned that the lands for his kingdom Gortwog gro-Nagorm received after he won a litigation - and a duel! - with lord Bowyn of Wayrest. Steadfastness and nobleness of character displayed by the Orc leader stirred many a heart and provoked no less hearsay than the fictitious details of the momentous duel. The truth that Gortwog obtained the deed of purchase, which allowed him to take the matter to court, by haggling, bribing, blackmailing, issuing threats and fracturing a knee - such truth didn’t play into the hands of either the Orc king or Menina Gsost, and it remained untold.

Gortwog found a common tongue with the Breton girl before he had a chance to open his mouth. In her restless eyes outlined with charcoal, he instantly perceived a story that longed to be written - a story begotten and nurtured by rumors and naive preconceptions.

Lady Menina Gsost wanted to tell her readers about a noble and pure savage who boldly challenged a depraved, mendacious world, and Gortwog gro-Nagorm didn’t object to it. In her helpless, lucid-gray eyes which resembled mountain rills, he quickly discerned lust. Not all of his wives looked at him with the same ardor, and if only the Breton girl was of stronger constitution...

But he could clasp lady Menina Gsost’s waist with his fingers and break it in half like a thin dry reed. Gortwog was attracted to different women: stalwart, stately, strong, and brave - women who met danger with bared fangs. He chose such women as his wives and lovers, and only such women could keep his attention and enjoy his caresses. Lady Menina Gsost remained to lord Gortwog a faithful friend while to her, he was a sweet, forbidden dream.

Gortwog told the Breton girl a great many things, but he never mentioned the visitor with the eyes of a snake in her presence. But Menina Gsost wasn’t the only one; her renowned hero didn’t breathe a word about it to his wives or to his mother - the woman he respected above all others. It wasn’t a story for somebody else’s ears. It would never become a subject for idle gossip.

The last time the demoness appeared to him was on that same day when the Tribe Council declared Gortwog kind of all Orcs and he stepped over the threshold of the newly-built throne room. The snake-eyed demoness waited for him there, leaning against the empty throne; she was nude save for the crown upon her head and a belt round her loins to which was affixed an axe, and the scars which covered her strong, lithe body were more attractive to Gortwog than her mature breasts.

Wiggling her hips, the demoness approached Gortwog and pressed her lips to his cheek. The Orc didn’t resist her caresses. The demoness smiled contently, took a step backwards, and put her hands on her hips.

“You extolled me well, Gortwog gro-Nagorm, I’m most pleased… But will you betray Malacath for me?”

Gortwog flew into a rage and lunged forward, but the face-snaked witch effortlessly caught his arm before the blow struck her. She clicked her tongue and added quietly:

“It’s futile to argue with me, my glorious king. But it’s all the same to me. The Daedra can wait.”

And the demoness let go of his hand and left, disappeared in the darkness. Gortwog hated himself for agreeing with her. Malouch-Malacath was indeed a god of pariahs and outlaws. He didn’t teach his children to fight for their happiness; he only preached obedience in the name of survival.

‘The Orcs,’ thought Gortwog, ‘deserve a better fate.’

“The Orcs,” Gortwog told his astonished advisers, “are Trinimac’s children. He deceived the demon Boethiah and took all of her strength to make his children purer than their weak and depraved cousins. In Orsinium, we will honor Trinimac who bestows us with power and not Malouch who condemns us to failure.”

And as Gortwog spoke, he saw the face of the demoness, shrouded in shadow and wreathed in a vile, lewd smile.

Only Boethiah knew that he was born with a serpent’s heart.

 


End file.
